Wednesday, November 26, 2014

Peela Potata

Apple of the earth, right? And it does, it smells like
earth. Even after I wash it, the skin, my skin, it smells like earth.

Rough under my fingertips.

Careful not to cut my fingertips. Nine out of ten I do, I
cut myself accidentally. Doesn’t matter if I use a knife or a peeler. I do it.

So generally I don’t do it. Peel the earth apples, I mean. I
don’t peel them.

They say that’s where the good stuff is, anyway. That Russians
kept the peels and gave their prisoners the insides. The soft, fleshy insides.

Those Russians.

Anyway, back to peeling. If I peel them, I wash them and rub
them first between my hands. Then I smell my fingers because I can’t help
myself. The smell on my fingers is better than the smell on the potatoes.

Next I pull the green garbage can halfway out from under the
sink, balancing it against my knee. One slice at a time, the peels curl away. Cut away from myself. Hold the potato in my palm, gripping with the ends of my
fingers. Pushing the knife down, the peels fall down, and finally the white inside is naked in my hand. Strange knobs in the flesh exposed.

Set the exposed potato aside to start on the next.

And then the next.

Such a quick, casual affair.

Next.

I don’t like the way my fingers smell, all starchy and
acrid, after peeling them. Much less intimate. Which is interesting since at
that point the earth apple is laid bare.

Growing up in Idaho, potatoes were (and are) a staple in or lives. When a guy I was dating told me he couldn't eat a raw potato because it smelled like dirt I knew it would never work with him. This was wonderful.